


maintenance

by snoozyfern (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, emetophobia warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/snoozyfern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don’t want to understand Dirk. You feel, if you finally reach that titanium core, there will never be that sense of impending adventure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	maintenance

You don’t want to understand Dirk. You feel, if you finally reach that titanium core, there will never be that sense of impending adventure.

Your friends have tried to crack the shell of his tough exterior, a hard cocoon of sharp corners and jagged edges. No one has gotten close enough. Dirk always has something hidden. He shivers slightly when he is touched, even if it’s just a featherish brush. He talks to himself, sometimes quite loudly. Especially when he’s alone. He doesn’t sleep much, and when he does, it’s fleeting, and he has nightmares. It’s probably got something to do with the isolation, and the hiding. The others have tried helping him, getting him used to human touch with hugs and hand holding. He doesn’t need psychoanalysing. He doesn’t need to be “fixed”. He’s not broken. He’s just a little different to the rest of them, they who are used to society, the speeding car, the faint hum of the planes passing overhead. The only things that used to pass over Dirk were clouds, seagulls, and the sun dragging her celestial sister behind her. Sometimes the blood-red ships would pass. Then came the storm of searchlights, sirens, drones. 

Dirk told you of the times he had to cower and hide. He’d leap into the ocean under his house on stilts, hide under the bed, under the workbench, holding his sword and his breath tight. When they were too quick for him, he had to play dead on one occasion. Stop breathing, stop moving, as the drones prodded and poked him. Clawed fingers removing his shades as he repeats the constant mantra – stay still, don’t breathe, _you will survive._

He felt pathetic. 

You tried to tell him he wasn’t being a coward, he was surviving. He should have got up, he told you, he should have got up and fought like his brother, the brother that was probably turning in his grave knowing he had such a worthless little brother. You could hear the lump in his throat. You didn’t reach out to touch him. You listened to him, until his voice halted. “Are you okay, chum?” you asked him, gently, as if your voice could turn him to dust. He moved slowly, and his fingers slipped into your palm, and then linked together with your own. He sniffled, and the silence grew, resonating in the room. You felt the warm in his hand, and that was all the answer you needed. 

You were often there when the night terrors would set in. He never screamed, or whimpered. He was always quite silent in terms of vocalities. He did thrash in his sheets, coated in a thin film of cold sweat. It was like he was trapped in a net with no opening. You were there on the one incident he woke up, sprang out of bed, and ran to the bathroom to throw his guts up. You held his hand and stroked his back to comfort him as he dry heaved, spittle dripping from his chin. He was like a kicked puppy, shivering weakly and sobbing softly, although he’d never admit to crying. You didn’t offer words of reassurance, you just wiped his chin and held him like a lifeline. He had become more comfortable around you as you were the only one not trying to fix him. 

You saw no need to fix something that wasn’t broken. And if some way he is broken, that’s ok. He’s just undergoing maintenance.


End file.
